Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (40 page)

“Good work,” he tells me.

I give the same compliment to the Tin Man, Dorothy, and the men who helped hold Cynthia. The crowd cheers. We all pose for photos and wouldn’t you know it? The sun breaks through the storm clouds and a rainbow appears, arching right over Times Square.

I look at it and have to smile. That’s the first good sign I’ve seen in a long time. Maybe things are looking up.

“You looked very comfortable on stage,” Trixie tells me. “Taking your well-deserved bows.”

We three queens have just arrived at
Dream Angel
’s opening night after-party and we’re commanding a fair amount of attention, I must say. It’s not just because we all look fabulous in our gowns, although we do. Mine is a blush-colored tiered chiffon with an embellished halter neckline; Trixie’s is all drama with a black gossamer mesh skirt and embroidered black-and-white bodice; and Shanelle could not have chosen better than her strapless trumpet gown in deep sapphire.

No, we’re nearly as in-demand as Tonya and Junior at this shindig, thanks to my sleuthing. After that came to light this afternoon, Junior not only let me attend opening night; he brought me on stage to share my triumph with the audience.

“You two should’ve come on stage with me,” I say.

“We didn’t deserve to, girl,” Shanelle says. “We both thought you were nuts when you kept thinking Lisette might’ve been murdered.”

We grab champagne flutes from a passing tray. “That’s not the worst of it,” Trixie moans. “I was stupid enough to hang out with the killer.”

“We all hung out with Cynthia,” I say. “Don’t feel bad, Trixie. Besides, it was you who got me thinking that she was the killer. When you told me on the phone last night that Cynthia was upset about her foster mother, I realized just how much her life story is like the heroine’s in
Dream Angel
.”

“I don’t think she was upset about her foster mother, either,” Shanelle says. “I think she was upset that the N.Y.P.D. figured out Lisette was murdered.”

That rapidly became a big news story. “She must’ve been feeling the heat then,” I say.

“Probably.” Trixie shakes her head. “Anyway, what I really feel bad about is that I didn’t tell the two of you everything she said to me. If I had, you might’ve figured all this out sooner, Happy.”

“What’d you hold back, Trix?” Shanelle wants to know.

“That she wanted us to use our influence to get the show to close.” Trixie grimaces. “That was a real red flag, now that I think about it. But I knew you two didn’t like her, so I didn’t want to admit she said something so crazy.”

I hoist my flute in the air. “To honesty among BFFs!”

We’re enjoying our bubbly when Tonya joins us, resplendent in a teal-colored fit-and-flare bandage gown with a plunging V neck. “You were so fabulous tonight, Tonya,” I say. “Your voice really soared.”

“Guess what Oliver just told me?” Tonya is so giddy she can hardly speak. “Brad Baisley, you all know who he is, right?”

“He’s the
Times
critic, girl!” Shanelle cries.

“Yes,” Tonya says, “only the most important man in my universe right now. Anyway, he told Oliver that I’m going to be very happy with the review. Those are his exact words!” she squeals. “ ‘Very happy.’ ”

“I can’t believe we have to wait until tomorrow to read it,” Trixie says. “I’m jumping out of my skin. I can’t imagine how you must feel, Tonya.”

“Right now, delirious.” She turns to me. “But I want to understand more about Lisette using Cynthia Cowlin’s life story to write
Dream Angel
. I’m a little worried. Is the musical going to run into copyright trouble now?”

“Not at all.” I got quite an education on this topic today after Cynthia was arrested. “A copyright covers only a specific telling of a story. You can’t copyright a story itself, only a certain way it’s told. So in other words, Cynthia’s life story can’t be copyrighted.
Dream Angel
, however, can be.”

“And I’m sure it is,” Tonya says. “But what about Cynthia’s right to privacy?”

“We all have that right. But Lisette changed some of the details of Cynthia’s life when she wrote
Dream Angel
. For example, Cynthia is a hairdresser.”

Tonya nods. “But the heroine I play works in retail.”

“So Lisette probably could’ve defended herself in court,” I say, “by claiming that while her heroine’s story was similar to Cynthia’s, it wasn’t based on Cynthia’s.”

“That doesn’t make it right, though,” Trixie murmurs.

“I think the problem was that Lisette couldn’t come up with a story of her own,” Shanelle says. “We heard at the celebration of her life that her father kind of bulldozed her into this career.”

I wonder if Warren Longley will ever communicate with me about his daughter’s murder and my role in bringing it to light. He hasn’t yet. “I feel bad for everybody involved in this. Even Cynthia.”

“Now I understand why she saw
Dream Angel
five times,” Trixie says. “It wasn’t because she’s a Broadway geek, like she told us.”

“But since she saw so many
Dream Angel
previews,” I say, “Cynthia did know the exact moment Lisette would appear on the staircase. She knew exactly when she could hit her with the ball bearing. By the way.” I lower my voice. “Guess what the police found in Cynthia’s apartment? A competition slingshot. That’s how she hit Lisette in the back of the head.”

“You learn something new every day,” Shanelle says. “I had no idea there was such a thing as a competition slingshot.”

“There are clubs and everything,” I say. “Clearly Cynthia practiced this.” I hate to say it was impressive that Cynthia killed Lisette the way she did, but in a gruesome way it was. It required cunning and skill, attributes I would not have guessed Cynthia possessed in great measure.

Junior joins us, looking dapper in a tuxedo. “How are my two stars?” he inquires, looking first at Tonya and then at me.

“Never better!” Tonya beams.

“Tonight went so well I don’t even mind that my father’s here.” Junior raises his champagne flute in his father’s direction and Senior raises his as well. I’m guessing that’s the warmest gesture I’ll ever see between those two. “Apparently the old bastard tried to trash talk
Dream Angel
to Baisley,” Junior goes on, “but to no avail. So even though we’re not sitting on
Hamilton
here, we’re sitting pretty.” He spins away. Tonya is spirited away, too, by a throng of chorus members.

A server tops off our champagne. “It’s too bad your mom and Bennie didn’t come to the party,” Trixie says.

“Maybe it’s better they have a quiet night just the two of them,” Shanelle says.

“Things might settle down between them once they get back home,” I say.

Or they might not. Trust is hard to rebuild once it’s shattered.

I glance across the room at Kimberly, who’s very pretty in a red cocktail dress with a strappy open back. She’s laughing with a small group. I excuse myself from my BFFs and head in her direction. “I owe you an apology,” I tell her.

Her enormous blue eyes fly open.

“I was wrong to accuse you of having anything to do with Lisette’s death,” I go on.

“You were wrong,” she tells me. “And you wouldn’t let up.”

“I’m sorry. Really I am.”

She makes me wait before she says it. Then: “I accept your apology,” she says, and turns back to her friends.

We’ll never be besties, that’s for sure. But Kimberly may be part of my life for a while if she manages to get Jason’s calendar back on track. He says that’s possible.

Our conversation was strained this afternoon when I called to tell him about the day’s events. I’m already getting publicity from figuring out that Cynthia killed Lisette, which should bolster me with Mr. Cantwell but might have the opposite effect with Jason. Between that and the shark-kicking video that went viral, I fear Jason will be even more convinced that I’m somehow “too much” for him.

I walk to a window and gaze at Manhattan’s amazing night time skyline. Lights from more buildings than I can count twinkle in a madcap dance that can’t be matched anywhere else.

Somewhere in all that magic is Mario. No doubt he’s heard by now that I solved another murder mystery. But for the first time, he didn’t call to congratulate me. I heard that silence, and I understood it, but it hurt.

I look out at the beautiful night and what else can I do? I wish Mario well.

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Continue reading for an excerpt from
Diana’s novel
Chasing Venus
, the story that readers call “a perfect blend of romance and suspense” ….

Known for page-turning romantic novels that keep you reading late into the night, Diana Dempsey delivers a suspenseful tale about a man and a woman who must shed the past to embrace the future …

Annette Rowell’s latest novel is leapfrogging up the bestseller lists, and with every surge in sales she’s becoming more of a household name. The literary success she’s struggled so hard for would be a dream come true were it not for the killer preying on bestselling authors.

Reid Gardner hosts a syndicated crime show dedicated to capturing dangerous fugitives. The former LAPD cop knows only too well how violence can shatter lives. No victim arouses his ardor more than the pretty author who’s become the target of a psychopath. Yet falling in love with her could cost him not only the reputation he’s spent years building, but the one killer who’s eluded him for years …

PROLOGUE

Death was not on the guest list, but it appeared all the same.

Maggie Boswell, reigning queen of mystery fiction, sat at the signing table as if she were royalty on a throne. Around her, in teetering piles, was her latest bestseller. Grabbing at the books were members of the literary elite—authors, editors, agents. It was a huge irony that Maggie had invited them into her home for this book party. Most of them she disliked. Now all of them she distrusted.

For any one of them might try to kill her.

Someone handed her a book. She scribbled the inscription, struggling to rise above her fear. In the shifting terror of her worst imaginings, even her beloved home unnerved her. Its enormity was no longer a joy, but a threat. It had too many corners, too many shadows. And outside its stucco walls the night was moonless, and the silver-gray Pacific beyond the terraced garden unnaturally still.

A breeze from the open French doors behind her wafted over the back of her neck, chilling her skin like a spectral caress. She shivered, turned to look. Yet there was nothing there, nothing but the unrelieved blackness of her garden.

“Ms. Boswell?”

She spun at the woman’s voice, and pursed her lips. A pretender to her throne, in the form of a brunette wisp with—in Maggie’s opinion—dubious talent.

The woman held a book toward her and smiled. "I’m Annette Rowell. I’m a huge admirer of your work."

Maggie took the book but didn’t care to smile back. “Are you?”

"I’ve really been looking forward to this one."

Read it and weep
. “Shall I sign the book to you?”

“Please.”

Maggie scrawled
To Annette
and then her signature in expansive script. She slapped the hardcover shut and held out the volume.

"You may remember that I have a mystery series of my own," the woman said.

Maggie was well aware of it. "Is that so?"

Again the woman smiled. “Thank you so much for including me tonight."

Maggie wondered how this upstart had made it onto the guest list. She averted her head in silent dismissal and the woman moved along.

The books kept coming, endlessly. Greet, open, sign, hand back, smile, over and over again. At one point, Maggie jolted upright. She’d felt something, sudden and swift, in the nape of her neck. A piercing, like a bee sting, or a needle making an entry into flesh. Deeply and with purpose. Then, just as quickly, gone.

She frowned, twisted to look behind her out the French doors. Again, nothing. Just the yards of flagstone terrace and the lawn sweeping to the sea. With some trepidation she touched the back of her neck, then stared aghast at the unmistakable crimson smear on her finger.

My God
. A thought came, a terrifying idea she immediately banished.
It can't be
.

Someone held another book toward her. Mechanically she signed it, her mind whirling. As she returned the volume to its owner, she grimaced again.